Michael Gracie 

Leland Fly Fishing Outfitters, a powerhouse of online sales, has introduced a new line of fly rods under their Red Truck brand. Strangely enough, that same brand happens to be their outlet store moniker, but I immediately thought about how premium rod makers would feel having a retailer producing their own rods. Then I saw the warranty…

It’s simple:

- If your Red Truck fly rod breaks due to manufacturer defect, of course we will replace the broken section or make appropriate replacement for the usable lifetime of your rod

- If you break your Red Truck fly rod due to normal fishing, we ask that you pay the reasonable replacement price, comparable to the shipping and handling fees most manufacturers charge, for the section/s of the rod you (or your car door, or your four-legged friend) broke.

In other words…

Most fly rod brands build in an extra “insurance” cost on every fly rod they manufacture, knowing that this will cover the cost of the few who abuse their fly rods. For those who take care of their angling equipment, it’s pure profit for “The Man.”

But what about you? You take great care of your fly rods and might never need a breakage warranty “built-in” to the retail cost of the rod.

At Red Truck, we know that fly rods break, but we believe that you should only pay for what you use.

Fair enough. And an h/t to Moldy Chum.

Meanwhile, Deeter & Company recently broached the issue in the midst of discussing the plethora of tougher product about to hit the streets. Within was this nugget…

One industry insider I talked with (whose company eats about $2 million a year replacing broken rods) said that the rod warranty is still one of the biggest disasters ever to hit the fly rod world. And I’m not sure most consumers even like it.

There you have it folks: one side pushing rods at rock bottom prices without the unconditional warranty, and the other trying to build them better so they’ll never need to be fixed in the first place. Confusing, eh?

Of course, there are other manufacturers out there selling at Leland’s price points that will still replace your stick for no charge, but the shop does one better by saying if the Red Truck isn’t hands down your favorite rod they’ll take it back. They don’t tell you whether you’ll get a refund, but it is certain they’ve got a place to sell it used. You can also be sure that no matter how indestructible a fly rod is engineered, there is an angler who will find a way to break it. However, if even a small percentage of rods come away unscathed as a result of better builds, it looks like a positive. After R&D and other fixed costs are finally absorbed, of course.

Who wins and who loses under these scenarios? Will Leland’s new line become everyone’s rod of choice, or will the eBay rivers wind up running blood Red? Can premium rods with armor plating reinvigorate the sport, or are the price points still too high for the folks struggling with their second mortgage loans?

Even bigger question: How will other rod makers react, and where does the local fly shop fit in to all this?

MG signing off (with nothing but questions)

I have been actively engaged on Twitter for roughly twenty months. During that time I have met some interesting folks, and had some fun. I also learned a lot about people, social interaction, marketing, network complexity, and myself. But no longer.

The experiment is now over

Before detailing the underlying reasoning, I’ll draw the sketch: between consuming RSS feeds – which I do several times a day during the work week – and keeping track of social network updates, it was just too much. In addition, many of the networks give users the ability to syndicate content from one service to the other – as I was connected to many of the same users on multiple networks, a significant amount of the information being delivered was redundant. I couldn’t tell whether my memory was failing or I was experiencing digital déjà vu.

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The sun still rides high above the Front Range.

As I walk up the road I check my line. The tippet looks strained right at the knot I just tied. I bite down on each side of the nail while continuing the stroll, and then proceed with four wraps on either side of the loop around my middle finger.

Stop momentarily, spit, and pull tight. Much better.

Turning the corner, there’s a familiar face. We exchange glances, then greetings. The story is nobody’s been around here very much. Relief washes over me.

The water is low and clear of weeds. A stiff breeze is blowing in the face, slightly from the right. Damn.

Line falls from reel to ground, and then a few elbow tests are done. I let the little crawdad-colored, bullet-headed, curly-tailed bugger rip. It carries sixty or so feet, and left.

Self-reassurance: That’s a good spot.

One strip, two strips, three strips…four.

There were plenty…

…of jackrabbits spotted on the way back to the truck.

MG signing off (comfortable with the condition)

Via Midcurrent comes this out of southeastern Queensland, Australia – the wholesale massacre of a school of breeding-size permit:

That’s one school of trophy size permit (aka snub-nosed dart or oyster crackers) that no longer exists. Local anglers Fisho spoke with say that permit of this size have never been seen before in the Noosa region. It’s likely the fish were part of a spawning aggregation. It goes without saying that if netting like this continues these stand little, if any, chance of developing a sustainable population.

A decade ago I stood on the beach in Los Frailes, fly rod in hand, and watched netters surround a large school of roosterfish while my guide screamed bloody murder and ran to the jeep for his telephoto lens. This permit debacle reminded me of that.

Then I scrolled the comments, finding this from Mr. Frank Hussey:

If fly flickers were aware of this permit fishery you would not be able to get a room in Noosa! Probably worth $500 each to the sport fishery – and they would be released. I think I’ll come up for a look just in case they missed a few.

I heard the same thing on that sunny day in Baja, and consider the point valid. Both species are near and dear to the hearts of the fly angler, but can a commercial fisher actually make the leap from selling by the pound to selling by the 1/2 day? Surely the profit margin is better, but is there a big enough market?

I reminisce about all the fish I’ve caught and eaten. I can only think of one that is sick fun to take on the fly, goes great on the grill, and is a prolific enough breeder and voracious enough feeder that it probably isn’t going to wind up on the Endangered Species list very soon.

What else is out there, worthy of catching and eating? Or should we be sticking to madcow and fries a side salad?

MG signing off (to ponder what’s for dinner)

New Jersey Governor Chris Christie on missing out on federal education funds…

This ain’t no political forum, but I thoroughly enjoyed the lesson the above provides.

When I first heard about the Rio Trout LT, I immediately presumed Rio foresaw a trend towards lighter rods and slower actions. Whether that’s the global case or not, it has happened, to some degree, around these parts. Hence, begging and pleading for some test product came naturally. Then, even before arrival, I started asking myself “what’s wrong with the Rio Gold I’ve been casting?” The answer turned out to be nothing, and everything, as this premium addition to the RIO lineup is every bit a special breed.

Rio bills the Trout LT as…you guessed it…the best thing since sliced bread for tight spaces and ultra-delicate presentations. The Gold is offered in WF3 through WF8, while the Trout LT can be had in WF1 through WF7 and double-tapered line weights 1 through 6. Yes, one-weight – it doesn’t get more dainty than that.

My personal quiver now ends at #4, but no matter. I’ve had this line out a half-dozen times, strung on a Scott G2 884/4 – that’s 8’8” of bona fide noodle, perfect for casting #20 dries in streams I could almost reach across with my stubby arms. The fact my aging eyes can barely see those flies on the surface is of no consequence – touchy-feely was secure for testing.

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A bachelor party took place in Steamboat Springs this past weekend.

Question: Who’s the lucky guy?

Answer: Part-time fly-fishing guide and full-time cool cat Tim Marek.

Question: You guys fished then, right? I mean, you were right next door to the mighty Yampa!

Answer: Possibly.

Question: Did you catch anything? Got any pictures?

Answer: Stupid question. Cameras were not allowed at this event.

Question: Ok, so you partied your ass off?

Answer: I don’t remember.

Question: Come on! Did you pull off the usual bachelor-partyesque activities?

Answer: Sorry…I signed a confidentiality agreement.

Question: Hmm. OK…who else was there?

Answer: You don’t want to know.

Question: Man, you suck. I come looking for some juicy stories and all you can give me is the runaround?

Answer: Them’s the breaks kid.

Question: Screw you!

Answer: That’s not a question.

MG signing off (since I have nothing substantive to offer)

I know this person who has a necklace of tiny shells hanging from their rear-view mirror. Every once in a while they reach up and fiddle with it. The guise is releasing nervous anxiety, but it’s easy to see through that excuse. They are, of course, a die-hard fly fisher.

The condition runs wide

Michael White, fly-fishing manufacturers’ representative extraordinaire (a.k.a. Whitey), is well-known for sticking toads, and (surprise, surprise) he carries a good luck charm around as well. It’s a hyena, one that looks like it has fashion sense to boot. Editor’s note: this amulet was not present when Mr. White failed to call someone’s all-in during a certain round of hold ‘em that was probably the turning point in said match. Ode to the skills that pay bar bills. Thank goodness.

I’m guilty too

Affixed in the northwest corner of the northeast-most room in my abode, facing southeast, is a three-inch tall red Buddha. I originally thought it a gag, but the collie dog quickly took to greeting me each morning from within close proximity to the thing, and then staring intently at it as though engaged in some telepathic exchange. The pup has always been good luck, so I’ve rolled with it, and would be hard pressed to deny the positive effects.

My spiritual advisor recently suggested I dust the little guy off, maybe rub his belly a bit before I hit the sack. I would have scoffed, but she gave me the Buddha to begin with. The fact she has a tiny black dragon hanging inconspicuously in the corner of her foyer, staring directly at the front door, has nothing to do with my heeding the advice.

Now I suspect he who foists a golden object – that look strangely like a full-brim fishing hat – may be doing some traveling in the very near future.

MG signing off (to dig up a protective satchel for my little friend)

What you are smelling is the scent of failure. It is an unmistakable zero as far as you are concerned.

Your endeavor started off with a bang – you were overtly enthusiastic about its potential. All signs pointed to a grand ole time. Then the conditions took a turn for the worse, and you wound up empty handed.

Or did you?

Was there anything to learn from the experience? Did you gather information? Slice it, dice it, and recognize any pattern? Share the results of that examination with others less biased in, or more capable of, judging the situation for what it was? And is?

Failure, like success, is what you make of it.

And whining is the only sure sign of skunk.

A second round of thoughts on some work I’m doing hits the inbox:

Take the Strunk and White principle of “less is more” and apply it mercilessly and see what the outcome is.

I look left, and on the second shelf up find the reference. It’s the Third Edition, which I bought used from the university bookstore more than two decades ago.

Several years back I myself suggested The Elements of Style to someone. They told me they didn’t have time to read any books.

I at once took that as a “screw you” and that they didn’t care much about what they were creating either. You can surmise how it turned out.

I look at my latest piece, immediately recognizing exactly where my critic is coming from.

Then I decide I’d rather not make the same mistake.